CHAPTER IV
Bertrand's Dream
It was midnight, and all was still in the castle save the ghostlyhooting of an owl from some half-ruined turret above, and the long,dreary howl of a prowling wolf from the gloomy wood below.
But Bertrand du Guesclin, tired as he was, and still as was all aroundhim, had never felt less inclined to sleep. The yet uncooled excitementof the first life-and-death struggle in which he had ever been engaged,the wonderful and dazzling prospect opened to his fiery spirit by themysterious prediction of that day, above all, the inspiring thoughtthat his courage had actually been owned to some extent, howeverungraciously, even by those who had hitherto despised him, pulsedthrough his veins like living fire, and banished all thought of slumber.
Fevered and restless, the future champion of France at length thrusthis heated face through the narrow window into the cool night-air, andwas watching the rising moon peep timidly above the black, whisperingtree-tops, when his mother's voice was heard below--
"Assuredly Bertrand is indeed destined to great honour, for, had butone of these two spoken it, it must needs have been truth. How muchmore when they are both in one tale!"
The listening boy started, and held his breath to hear. What could hismother mean by "both"?
"Thou art right, dame," replied Sir Yvon's harsh tones, "for St. Thomasthe Doubter himself, I ween, could find in this matter no room forunbelief. Bertrand goes forth at hazard into the wood, and meets therethe pilgrim monk; and he, who knoweth the future as I know the blazonryof mine own escutcheon, tells the boy that he is chosen of Heaven to bethe champion of the land! On the same day, and at the same hour, thou,knowing nought of all this, goest to yonder convent; and lo! the holySister Agnes, in whom is the spirit of prophecy, welcomes thee as onefavoured of Heaven, and gives thee joy for that Bertrand is fated to bethe glory of our house and of the whole realm of France. Who shallgainsay such testimony as that?"
The boy's heart throbbed as if it would burst; for, though he had knownof his mother's purposed visit to the convent that day, this was thefirst that he had heard of its result.
The strange message was confirmed, then! Twice in one day had hisfuture greatness been foretold by tongues that could not lie; and, likehis favourite hero, King David, he was singled out by the choice of GodHimself to be exalted from a nameless youth into the deliverer of hispeople! What more could heart desire?
In the tumult of his feelings, the excited lad failed to catch hismother's answer; but he heard plainly his father's gruff tones in reply.
"How he is e'er to be famed in knightly arms, I see not, for he is tooclumsily shapen for lance or saddle; and, moreover, with that Saracenface of his (which hath the fashion of the demons in our mystery-plays)how shall he e'er get him a lady-love? And what true knight can duly dohis devoir (duty) without one?"
Again the boy missed his mother's reply; but its purport was easy toguess from Sir Yvon's growling rejoinder--
"Anger me not with thine ill-bodings, foolish wench. Heaven forbid thatson of mine should ever be scholar or maker (poet), or any such uselessvagabond! Methinks there is little fear of it, for, thank God, he canneither read nor write; so far, at least, he is a true Du Guesclin!"
Such was indeed the case, for the fourteenth-century gentleman pridedhimself even more on his utter ignorance of letters than hiscounterpart in our day on his knowledge of them.
"Moreover," went on the worthy castellan, striving to fortify himselfwith every assurance against the dreaded risk of his son degeneratinginto an educated man, "the boy himself saith Brother Michael's wordswere, 'The champion of this land;' and in what wise should any championaid his land, save with hand and weapon? 'Tis not with parchment andgoose-feather, I trow, that men beat back sword and lance; nor is itwith musty maxims stolen from dead men that one setteth armies inarray. Nay, look not downcast, sweet; I meant not to chide thee,howbeit thy words chafed my rough humour somewhat. Break we now ourparle, for it waxeth late, and it is full time we were sleeping."
And their voices died away.
Sir Yvon and his lady might have been less slow of belief could theyhave looked forward into the future barely the space of one longlifetime, to the day when France, in her sorest need, was to find achampion and deliverer, not in a strong and daring young noble, but ina gentle, dreamy, child-like peasant girl of Lorraine, who was destinedto lead great armies to victory, capture strong cities, defeat greatgenerals in battle after battle, and hand down to the admiration of allages, so long as the world should last, the glorious name of Joan ofArc.
But all this was still in the unknown future; and the many perils thendarkening over France might well have seemed, even to a shrewder brainthan that of the rugged old Breton knight, to call for a far ablerchampion than a passionate, headstrong, untaught boy of fourteen.
Within the realm, the smouldering rage of the trampled peasantryagainst the merciless oppression of the French nobles was gatheringstrength year by year, and was destined to explode ere long in thatterrific outbreak that ante-dated the worst horrors of the FrenchRevolution, and made all Europe shudder at the name of the Jacquerie.Without, the fiery young English king, Edward III., was alreadypreparing to strike the first blow of that tremendous war which was towaste the best blood of France and England for many a year after hisdeath. And to crown all, whereas England was as one man in hereagerness for the coming strife, France was fatally divided againstherself, the king against the nobles, the nobles against each other,and the trampled people against both; and even the clergy weresimilarly divided between two rival popes, some adhering to PopeClement of Rome, others to Pope Benedict of Avignon.
Long did Bertrand sit musing on such rumours of these things as hadcome to his ears, and on the strange twofold prophecy that had markedhimself as the only one who could stay the tide of ruin that was aboutto overwhelm his country. It was long past midnight ere he closed aneye; and even when his growing weariness overpowered him at last, thewild thoughts that had troubled his waking hours still haunted him in adream.
He dreamed that he was making his way, slowly and painfully, throughthe pathless depths of a dark forest, amid which one solitary breakgave him a glimpse of the walls and towers of a distant town. Suddenlyrose before him the shadowy outline of a strange and monstrous shape,so dim in itself, and so faintly seen amid the gloomy twilight of theoverarching trees, that he could hardly tell if it were a mightyserpent, or a long line of armed men marching in single file, till, allat once, a flash of fire sprang from what seemed to be the monster'shead, revealing in all its hideousness the form of a huge dragon, withthe iron claws, vast shadowy wings, and flaming breath assigned to itby popular tradition.
Just then came riding through the terrible forest, right toward thedragon's open jaws, a lady on a snow-white palfrey. Her garb was theusual dress of the time--a high, pointed cap, a long veil waving fromit, and a flowing robe secured at the waist with an embroidered girdle;but her face was such as he had never seen before, dreaming or waking.Even its marvellous beauty was less striking than the sweet and holycalm that dwelt in every line of it, and the strange, solemn, almostprophet-like depth of earnestness in the large, lustrous eyes, whichseemed to look beyond and above all the sorrows and perils of earth,with the quiet confidence of one over whom neither peril nor sorrow hadpower any more.
At the first glimpse of her the dragon fell writhing to the earth, andthe strange maiden, leaping lightly from her horse, planted her barefoot fearlessly on the monster's vast scaly bulk, and passed over itsbody unharmed, while at that moment broke from the sky overhead, insweet music, the words of a familiar psalm--
"Thou shalt tread upon the lion and the adder; the young lion and thedragon shalt thou trample under foot."
Just then the prostrate monster's hideous head changed suddenly to ahuman visage almost as horrible--a brutal, ruffianly, soulless face,with a bristling red beard and a low, receding forehead, across whichran a broad
smear of blood. For one instant the fierce eyes glaredunutterably, and then became fixed and rayless, while a last shudderquivered through every ring of the mighty coils, ere they stiffened indeath.
Then it seemed to Bertrand that he approached the wonder-workingstranger, and strove to ask who she was, and whence she came; but histongue was fettered, and not a word could he utter.
As he stood speechless, the dream-lady stepped up to him with a laurelwreath in her hand, and, placing it on his brow, said in a clear,musical voice--
"Hail to the champion of France!"
Instantly the words were echoed as if by an unseen multitude, infar-resounding chorus, strong and deep as the roll of a mighty sea,"Hail to the champion of France!" and, with that shout still in hisears, the dreamer started and awoke.